it suggested the death-rustle of bank-notes.

When ten minutes later he came back into his sitting-room, he seemed
to himself oddly, unexpectedly in the presence of a bigger view. It
was as if some interfering mass had been so displaced that he could
see more sky and more country. Yet the opposite houses were
naturally still there, and if the grimy little place looked lighter
it was doubtless only because the rain had indeed stopped and the sun
was pouring in. Peter went to the window to open it to the altered
air, and in doing so beheld at the garden gate the humble "growler"
in which a few hours before he had seen Mrs. Ryves take her
departure. It was unmistakable--he remembered the knock-kneed white
horse; but this made the fact that his friend's luggage no longer
surmounted it only the more mystifying. Perhaps the cabman had
already removed the luggage--he was now on his box smoking the short
pipe that derived relish from inaction paid for. As Peter turned
into the room again his ears caught a knock at his own door, a knock
explained, as soon as he had responded, by the hard breathing of Mrs.
Bundy.

"Please, sir, it's to say she've come back."

"What has she come back for?" Baron's question sounded ungracious,
but his heartache had given another throb, and he felt a dread of
another wound. It was like a practical joke.

"I think it's for you, sir," said Mrs. Bundy. "She'll see you for a
moment, if you'll be so good, in the old place."

Peter followed his hostess downstairs, and Mrs. Bundy ushered him,